Hold Onto Me (And Make Me Whole Again)
by Center of the Galaxy
Summary: The voices were always there, taunting her and driving her slowly insane. It was only when Stiles was there that Lydia seemed to regain control. With Stiles' hand in hers, she could do anything. *season 4 spoilers, cannon Stalia and future Stydia*
1. Whispering

_**Author's Note: **__This idea has been floating around in my head for ages now. Set post "Orphan" but no spoilers past that episode. Please enjoy!_

* * *

"_And I don't know how_

_I can do without_

_I just need you now."_

—_Lady Antebellum, "Need You Now"_

* * *

The voices were relentless.

Whispering constantly in the back of her mind, she couldn't seem to shake them ever since Meredith had died. Perhaps this was a sign of her powers growing stronger; perhaps, it was a sign of her guilt over the role she played in the whole matter. Her nights were plagued with nightmares of Meredith's lifeless eyes staring back at her while the voices spoke over each other, growing louder and louder in their intensity. She would spend what felt like an eternity, listening and staring into Meredith's eyes until finally, the banshee would sit up and with her head lopsided, Meredith would tell her,

"Lydia, you and I," She would begin in a singsong voice. "We're one in the same."

Then, Lydia would wake and face the harsh light of day.

And the whispers were still there.

* * *

"And if we look at this equation, we see that we must—"

Lydia tried to focus on the equation on the board, forcing her mind to embrace the stability that chemistry held. Unlike the rest of her life, chemistry was a subject that she could handle. The laws of chemistry remained the same and that gave her a sense of control and relief.

Aside from the voices.

Even now, as she worked on balancing the equation, she could hear them, clawing at the recesses of her mind, wanting to overtake her. Her hand shook as she wrote the equation out and the teacher's voice seemed to fade, as if someone had turned down the volume.

_Lydia._

She froze, but quickly forced herself to work on the equation, to attempt to find solace in it.

_Lydia, you cannot escape your fate._

Her grip on the pencil tightened.

_Lydia, you cannot escape us. _

"Stop." She muttered, eyes screwed shut.

_Lydia._

"Please, stop." She growled, voice rising a bit.

_Lydia, why fight it?_

"Lydia?"

The pencil snapped in half and she met the perplexed gaze of her teacher.

"Lydia?" Her teacher questioned softly. "Are you alright?"

She could feel the eyes of the class on her and a headache began to build within her.

"Fine." She lied. "I'm fine."

And the voices just laughed.

* * *

There were moments when the voices overtook her.

The world seemed to dim and there was nothing but the voices and the being known as Lydia Martin ceased to exist. Her mind went blank and she'd sit for hours at a time until she'd snap out of it and find that the night had vanished and she'd had to go to school.

These episodes terrified her, especially since they seemed to grow in frequency. One night a month turned into two, then four, then six, until she seemed to have them nearly every other day.

She wanted to tell the pack, to get the support she knew they would give her, but with the deadpool, and the stress that everyone seemed to be under, she couldn't bring herself to do it. This was her problem and she alone would handle it.

_If only you knew how, Lydia._

The taunt cut deep, but she steeled herself against it.

Lydia Martin did not give up.

She would fight this and she would win.

* * *

_Banshees live alone. Banshees die alone. _

She sat at the lunch table, her hands shaking as she moved to take a bite of her sandwich. Around her, the pack joked and talked—rare moments like these were ones to be treasured, especially in the light of what was happening with the deadpool—but as hard as she tried, Lydia couldn't listen.

_You're a banshee, Lydia. _

The headache was building up again.

_You'll live alone. You'll die alone. _

Across from the table, she met Stiles' gaze and she could see the confusion in his expression. He leaned over to Scott, saying something that Lydia could not hear over the din.

_And when you die, it will only be when you've had enough. _

Scott faced her and opened his mouth. She couldn't hear what came out. Her sandwich fell to the floor, her hands were shaking so. The pain in her mind grew to becoming nearly excruciating.

_And then, and only then Lydia, will you get the silence you crave._

The pain exploded, blinding her, and she could feel herself listing to the side and was seemingly powerless to stop it. She was going to fall to the floor, here in the lunchroom, and the old Lydia Martin would've cringed at such an embarrassing thing, though she had to admit that the peacefulness of unconsciousness did seem appealing.

Hands caught her before she could fall and instantly, the aching dulled and the voices were silent.

"I've got you." Stiles held her securely in his grip, the rest of the pack hovering by her, concerned. "You okay?"

She could feel herself crying, the relief was so overwhelming.

"Lydia?" Kira knelt down, her face swimming into view. She placed a warm hand on her skin and she nearly jumped at the touch. The kitsune grimaced as she began to rub comforting circles on Lydia's arm. "You're freezing."

"I know." Stiles murmured and it occurred to her that she was still in his grasp, her head resting on his chest as his arms rubbed hers, trying to generate heat from friction. "Lydia? Do you need to see a nurse?"

"No." She managed to ground out. Though she wanted to stay in his arms, she could see the way Malia was eyeing her—distrust and concern fighting for dominance in her gaze. She could tell the were-coyote was battling against her natural instincts to reclaim what was hers—

Stiles.

The ache grew sharper the moment she pushed herself from Stiles' grip.

"Hey," His hand slipped into hers, as natural as breathing, and the ache subsided once more. "C'mon, let's go to the nurse."

Though she wanted to protest—she wasn't some damsel in distress—she hadn't the strength to make it on her own and the bed in the nurse's office sounded more and more appealing.

"Can you walk?" Malia now stood on the other side of her, looping an arm around her back. It was clear that her concern for a member of her pack had beaten her primal instincts. With a kind gaze, she smiled softly at the banshee before helping her stand upright.

"Thank you." She whispered and with Stiles supporting her other side, the trio quickly made their way to the nurse's office.

"Easy." Stiles slowly helped her to the bed and though Lydia wanted to keep her eyes open, to say something about what was going on, she found fatigue claimed her.

She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

* * *

Her nightmares were filled with crimson blood and cold, lifeless eyes.

Alison was there—her death being replayed over and over again until all Lydia could do was curl up into a ball and scream for help.

It never came though.

* * *

"Lydia?"

She opened her eyes to find herself back in her room, her mother sitting on the edge of her bed, blankets covering her. The warmth comforted her and she wanted to snuggle into it and ease her pain away. The dull ache still persisted in her mind and every jostle of her body seemed to cause it to flare up in protest.

"Lydia?" Her mother tried again, a bit more forcefully. "There you are." The older woman smiled warmly, her hand holding her daughter's. "How are you feeling?"

Awful, almost like she was having a knife driven into her mind ever so slowly.

"Better." She lied.

"Good." Her mother pressed a kiss to Lydia's hand. "I thought you were going to sleep forever."

"Sorry." She muttered. Then, suddenly, "How did I get here?"

"Don't you remember?" She questioned softly. "You decided to take a nap when you got home from school."

"I did?" Her eyebrows rose.

"You left a note on the counter for me." Her mother pointed vaguely behind her.

"Oh."

She made a note to thank her friends for thinking of everything.

"Well, you just rest." Her mother rose from her bed and moved to the door. "This cold seems pretty nasty."

"I will."

The door shut with a thud and Lydia stared upwards at the ceiling.

_You're damaged Lydia. _

She sucked in a breath, wincing at the pain that flared up.

_You're broken._

"Please." Her voice broke as her chest tightened. "Go away."

_You'll end up just like Meredith._

That's when Lydia began to cry.

* * *

She returned to school the next day, the mysterious episode of pain having passed as suddenly as it came on. It frightened her though, how quickly she went from fully functioning to unconscious.

How easily she could be rendered useless by forces out of her control.

"You're better."

"I am." Lydia greeted Stiles as she opened her locker. Unzipping her bag, she swapped her textbooks, pleased that there was no tremor in her hand, unlike yesterday. And blessedly, the voices had fallen silent.

"So . . ."

"So?" She eyed him, slightly suspicious.

"So, what was that yesterday?" Though he was attempting to act casual, his sharp tone gave him away.

"Nothing."

"Liar." He retorted.

"I was tired." She insisted.

"Right." He scoffed. "And I'm the Benefactor."

She zipped up her bag and slammed her locker shut. Pulling back, she noticed the slight tremor in her hand. The shock only registered on her face for a few seconds before she schooled her expression.

"Look." She breathed. "I'm okay." She placed a hand on his shoulder. "Really."

There's a pause as his eyes searched hers for the truth. Whether he saw something in her gaze or whether he chose to accept her lie, she wasn't sure but he finally said,

"Okay."

* * *

The voices faded after the incident at school.

Lydia embraced the normalcy, using it to prove not only to the pack, but also herself, that she was fine. That she had whatever it was that kept causing her incidents under control.

The only thing that gave her away was the slight tremor in her hands.

Stiles noticed it; she could tell by the way he casually draped his jacket across her shoulders, thinking she must've been cold. It was a sweet move, though unnecessary as the tremors always persisted.

"You're always shaking." Malia told her one day, coming to sit by her at lunch. The frankness in her voice took Lydia slightly off-guard. "Are you sick or something?"

"No." She took a deliberate bite of her sandwich, hoping the response would be enough to pacify the werecoyote.

"You and Stiles . . ." Malia started, her voice soft, tinged with worry. "He cares about you." Judging by her crestfallen expression, that hadn't been the thing she wanted to say, but for whatever reason, that's what she had decided upon.

"We're friends." Lydia replied, feeling the need to defend herself, though she hadn't been accused directly of anything.

"Yeah." Malia muttered. "Friends."

They spent the rest of the meal in silence.

* * *

That night, she dreamt of sprinting from some unknown evil force.

She woke up with a scream when they caught her.

* * *

"Lydia Martin?"

She tossed her backpack in her car and turned to see who had called her.

"Yes?" The banshee didn't recognize the freshmen that stood before her, but then again, Lydia had stopped caring about knowing everyone a year ago. Funny, how her priorities had shifted. She didn't even recognize the Lydia from years gone by.

The girl tilted her head to the side, dirty blonde hair tumbling down to touch her pale skin, a twisted grin pulling up her lips.

"I'm going to need you to come with me now."

A glint of metal flashed in the sunlight—a gun, Lydia noted dimly—and she's surprised this hadn't occurred already. Funny, she knew she had been on that list, but it never had actually occurred to her to be worried about being taken.

"You're making a mistake." Lydia hissed, wishing she could call out for help, but there were countless students walking by and she couldn't risk their safety.

"In the car." The younger girl snapped, ruby lips drawn together in a tight line. "Now."

Lydia had no choice but to comply.

_Lydia, look at the mess you've gotten yourself into. _

She winced as the voices flared up, an ache pooling in her head.

"Drive." The girl ordered, gun pointed at Lydia's head.

With a shaky hand, the banshee turned on the car and pulled out of the parking lot.

_You're going to die. _

Funny, she thought with a bittersweet smile, that had been the only thing she and the voices had been able to agree on.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **__This might be a two-shot or maybe longer. We'll see. I hope you enjoyed! Please review if you have a moment. _


	2. Taken

_**Author's Note: **__I lied. This will definitely be more than a two-shot. I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

"_I was there for you_

_In your darkest times_

_I was there for you_

_In your darkest nights."_

—_Maroon 5, "Maps"_

* * *

Kissing Malia is like being caught in a tornado.

She's strong, powerful and as her hands roam over his chest, he figures that's one of the points he likes best about her. He's new to this—having a girlfriend, getting kissed, going on dates—and though she must be too, she doesn't hesitate. She doesn't get tripped up like he does, doesn't balk at taking his hand within hers and leading the way.

And he likes her a lot.

He just . . . it isn't love. Maybe it will grow to be one day, but there is a difference between the amount of affection she holds for him and the amount he holds for her. Still, he wants to love her—wants to become the kind of guy that she sees in him—and he's willing to work at it for as long as it takes.

_Ring._

Malia's lips leave his the moment his phone rings. His girlfriend grimaces—annoyed to be interrupted by the phone—but Stiles mouths a quick apology before picking up the cellphone and placing it to his ear.

"Yeah?"

_"Stiles." _

The teenager visibly relaxes at the sound of his father's voice on the other line. Malia drapes herself over his shoulder, her gaze flickering to his eyes, perplexed.

"What's up, Dad?"

There's a pause and it's the first clue that something is off.

_"Have you seen Lydia this afternoon?" _There's an overly cautious edge to his father's tone that leaves his hairs standing up on edge. He glances at his clock—8:00pm—and wonders when it got this late.

"Lydia?" He feels Malia stiffen beside him. "No, I haven't."

His father sighs heavily.

_"It's probably nothing." _His father mutters and Stiles can picture him leaning back in his chair and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"But?" Stiles presses, voice tinged with fear.

_"Lydia hasn't come home tonight, Stiles." _

"What do you mean she hasn't come home?" He can't process what his father is saying to him. It's ridiculous to think that Lydia could be in trouble! She's part of the pack and so far no one had dared to go after her—

But, on the other hand, money could a strong motivator and going after a banshee is certainly easier than going after a werewolf.

_"I don't know yet!" _His father snaps, a mixture of concern and fury coloring his tone. _"I just . . . her mother is here and I can't help but wonder if this has something to do with the . . ." _He lowers his voice. _"With the list, okay?" _

"Someone's taken her." Stiles breathes and Malia straightens up, an unknown expression flashing across her face.

_"We don't know for sure—"_ His father tries to protest.

"It's Beacon Hills, Dad." Stiles chuckles mirthlessly. "What else could it be?" He rises from his bed and reaches for his jacket. "I'll be there in five." He hangs up and then zips the jacket.

"Is something wrong?" Malia questions, her gaze downcast. It reminds him of a child put in time out, the way she's hunched over.

"Lydia's been taken." He explains quickly. "We need to go to the police station."

"Right." She nods.

They head out the door and pile into his Jeep but he can't help but feel like he's missing some key piece of information, something that Malia wants him to know but can't voice.

But, with Lydia's life on the line, he doesn't have time to figure it now.

All that matters is Lydia.

* * *

By the time they get to the station, the Sheriff is consulting with Parrish, both of them looking equally grim.

He bursts through the door, not caring if he's interrupting anything.

"You find her?" He asks, knowing that they haven't, but wishing for it regardless.

"Her car was abandoned on a back road, about 20 minutes from town." Parrish reports dutifully, though his lips are in a tight line. "Her, uh, backpack and cellphone were left behind in it."

"But you don't know where she went?" Stiles presses and Parrish shakes his head mournfully.

"I'll call Scott." Malia speaks up softly. "He and I could take another look." She shares a knowing glance with the Sheriff who nods before she exits the room.

Parrish seems confused by the sudden turn of events, but doesn't voice his concerns.

"Parrish."

"Sir?" The Deputy straightens.

"Take Ms. Martin home." Stiles' father orders. "Tell her . . ." He pauses to think of some plausible excuse other than, 'your daughter is on a hit list and someone took her' but fails to come up with anything. "Tell her something and make sure she's calm before you leave."

"Yes, sir."

The Deputy leaves the room and Stiles finally has the chance to discuss the matter frankly without fear of the wrong person overhearing.

"Did you find any traces of who took her? Maybe Kate—?" Stiles questions, desperately needing to know who took Lydia and how they could get her back. Lydia means more to him than he knows how to express. She is his partner, his anchor—the girl he fell in love with in the third grade—and he'll be damned if he just sits here, being useless.

"Nothing." His father replies softly. "Whoever did this is a professional. No fingerprints, nothing incriminating left behind."

"They were hired to take her then." Stiles concludes. "So, maybe this isn't tied to the Benefactor."

"Or maybe someone wants a banshee." His father proposes. Running a hand through his hair, he grimaces. Then, crossing to his son, he places a hand on his shoulder and smiles softly. "We'll find her, Stiles."

"Alive?" He echoes, fear etched into his expression.

"Alive." His father repeats forcefully.

And in that moment, Stiles begins to hope again.

They will find Lydia; it's only a matter of time.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **__Next chapter, more on Lydia and her captors and more of the pack! Please review if you have a moment. Thanks! _


	3. Waiting

_**Author's Note: **__Here we go, chapter three! Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

"_Desperate for changing, starving for truth_

_I'm closer to where I started, I'm chasing after you."_

—_Lifehouse, "Hanging by a Moment"_

* * *

Lydia finds it odd how easily she's able to focus despite the fact that there's a gun aimed directly at her head. Still, she has to be honest; this isn't the worst situation she's been in. If being a kidnapped by a girl with a gun was as bad as it got, she could handle it.

"Stay there." The girl orders, voice low and deadly. She pulls out her cellphone and places it to her ear. "I've got her. Where are you?"

Lydia lets her eyes roam. Her kidnapper has brought her to a deserted rest stop nearly three hours outside of Beacon Hills. The options for escape are slim to none. If she were to scream, she'd be taking the risk that she'd get someone innocent hurt and stealing the car wouldn't work out as the girl who'd taken her has the keys locked in her deadly grip. She could attack her, but Lydia figured that would be the surest way to get herself killed. Plus, she has no weapons to give her an edge. Her own cellphone, along with her car, has been abandoned and she hopes that someone has noticed she's gone and then the pack—

It hits her in that moment.

She rips a piece of her shirt and without hesitating, quickly places it on the ground, a rock holding it in place.

"That wasn't part of the agreement." Her captor hisses. "What? No, I get it." She sighs. "Fine, fine. But I want double." She hangs up and the gun is once again in Lydia's line of sight.

"Let me go—" Lydia tries to plead but her captor's gaze hardens.

"In the car." She snaps. "Now."

Lydia has no choice but to do as she's told.

* * *

Two hours later, they pull up to a gated house.

"It's Megan." Her kidnapper tells the security guard and the man meets Lydia's gaze before nodding his head. The wrought iron gate opens and slowly, they pull onto the huge driveway. A few minutes later, a pristine white mansion emerges from the tall trees around the area and she can see armed security guards waiting by the front door. This place . . . where she is now, it's a compound. Whoever wants her, he or she isn't an amateur, that much is certain.

"Get out." Megan hisses at her and Lydia fumbles with the door for a moment, nearly falling out of the car in her desperation to get out. Her kidnapper faces the armed guards and scowls. "Does he have my payment?"

"Inside." One of the guards replies and Megan rolls her eyes.

"Must I do everything myself?" She heads into the mansion, leaving Lydia contemplating what to do. She could turn and run, but she isn't going to get very far and being shot certainly wouldn't help her.

"Miss Martin?" A man in a blue blazer emerges from the house, black hair slicked back and cold eyes boring into hers, a twisted smirk on his lips. "Welcome to my humble abode."

Her gaze narrows.

"Let me go." She forces her tone to sound as scary as possible. "Or you're going to regret it."

"Am I?" The man muses, amusement dancing in his eyes. He comes down the marble steps to stand directly in front of her and Lydia doesn't allow herself to back down from his gaze. She refuses to be afraid, refuses to show any weakness. His hand darts out and she flinches as his fingers toy with a strand of her hair. "You're beautiful." He muses, and then smirks. "For a banshee that is."

She forces herself to keep her expression neutral, to not give anything away. She doesn't know how this man found out what she is or what he wants, but for as long as she can, she's going to continue playing the clueless girl card.

"You're good." He remarks. "No reaction, not even a hint of fear." He sounds as if he's almost praising her and it chills her to her very core.

"What do you want?" She hisses, gaze hardening as she tries to show this man that no one messes with Lydia Martin and gets away with it. He may want her to play the damsel in distress but that sure as hell isn't happening. No, she'll get out of this situation on her own or with some help. But, she won't idly stand by and wait for a rescue mission.

No, she's going to get out of here.

"My name is Charles," He tells her instead, a grin plastered on his lips. "You can call me Charlie." He winks at her, like that's supposed to put her at ease. "And you, Miss Martin," He places a hand on her back as he begins to push her towards the house. She tries to put up a fight, but his hand is like iron and the armed guards are watching her, waiting to take their shot should she run. "You're going to keep me alive with those fancy powers of yours."

When the door shut behind them, Lydia knows she's screwed. This man—this crazy kidnapper—thinks she can control her powers? Well, she notes grimly, he's in for a surprise.

Because while she excels at nearly all aspects of academics, the one thing she can't handle are her powers.

Somehow, she thinks that's going to be a problem for her kidnapper.

* * *

If there's no one thing Stiles can't stand, it's waiting.

He's never been a patient person, never been one able to see how things are going to play out before taking action. It's one of his faults, he supposes, the one thing that used to get him in trouble with his dad all the time.

But now, sitting at his father's desk, feeling useless and staring at the phone, willing it to ring, he's never been surer that waiting is like hell on Earth. He doesn't know where Lydia is—doesn't know if she's alive or hurt or scared—and they have no leads.

"Stiles?" Parrish stands in the doorway, smiling tentatively.

"How's Ms. Martin?" Stiles asks, his voice rough.

"She's, uh," The deputy winces and Stiles can tell that it didn't go over well. "She's hanging in there." He glances around the office, as if looking for the Sheriff.

"Dad's on the scene." He won't add the fact that he's with Scott and Malia, seeing if they've picked up on anything.

"Ah." Parrish turns as if he wants to leave, but then thinks better of it. "Stiles, can I get you anything? Coffee or maybe a sandwich?"

"No thanks." He forces a small grin on his face. "I'm just going to . . ." He gestures to the phone and the older man gets it.

"Okay. Well, if you need anything, I'm down the hall."

Stiles nods and Parrish vanishes down the hallway, his boots echoing in the quiet department. The teenager sighs, aggravated, before getting up out of the chair. He runs a hand through his hair and takes to pacing. He can't just sit here and wait! There must be something to do or someone he could call—

His cellphone rings and he dives for it, placing it to his ear.

"Yeah?" His voice is the tiniest bit breathless.

_"Scott's picked up her scent." _His father informs him and Stiles feels like he can finally breathe. Sure, they don't have her back yet, but they have a lead at least.

"Where is she?"

_"Not sure yet." _His father replies. _"They found a piece of cloth from her shirt under a rock about three hours away in some rest stop. There are fresh tire marks in the dirt, but I'm not sure if we'll be able to follow them." _

"Three hours away?" Stiles echoes, shaking his head.

_"We're going to try and follow her scent, but Scott isn't sure how far we'll get. It looks like it's going to rain soon." _

He mentally curses the weather and then forces himself to reply, "Okay. Keep me posted."

_"We'll find her, Stiles." _

He knows that. If there's one thing their pack is good at is getting their own back home safe.

He just wishes he could be useful.

He hangs up the phone and sits in the chair.

"Hang in there, Lydia." He murmurs. "We're coming."

* * *

_**Author's Note: **__Hope you enjoyed! Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


End file.
